


A Pack of Smokes Each Day

by warmommy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 21:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18199472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: From nervous laughter to making love under the barbed blanket of war, you knew it was coming just as well as he did, and both of you knew it was inevitable.





	A Pack of Smokes Each Day

**Author's Note:**

> More to be found at warmommy.com :)

You knew it was coming just as well as he did, and both of you knew it was inevitable. You met soon after he sewed on his sergeant chevrons, and he stood out for more reasons than loose threads. He was quiet, but not stuffy or rude. He had kind eyes, a warm smile, and he gave all his cigarette packs to you.

“Ma'am?” he’d said the first time, that little boyish grin, the nerves that quirked the edges of his smile, the little gasp of a chuckle. “I don’t need them, although, you know, ‘combat-adjacent nurse’, maybe not the, maybe you shouldn’t…” He gave another little laugh and looked down, just the slightest bit of pink on his cheeks. “I’ve got to, uh, I’ve gotta go, uh…”

He was so cute, you almost didn’t want to rescue him from this little awkward moment. “Thank you kindly, Sergeant Lipton, I appreciate it.”

“Oh, you could just call me Lip. Everybody does.” He continued smiling at you for a few moments longer than incidental, and let that extended eye contact drop. He cleared his throat. As if second-guessing himself, he glimpsed up at you again. “See you soon–s-see you  _around_ , Lieutenant. Ma'am.”

“Oh, you could just call me Y/N.” You winked at him and tucked the smokes he’d given you under your sleeve. “Everybody does.”

You didn’t smoke that pack of cigarettes, not even one of them, but you looked at them a lot. Everybody thought it was strange, seeing you look down at your little charts with a pack of smokes on top, grinning at them like a fool. Every time you looked at them, though, It was a little like seeing Lip’s smile again, a little like feeling that little tingle of excitement in your heart when he sounded nervous or breathed.

There was always an excuse to talk to each other, always, and then you stopped making excuses. Training became more specialised, and you were expected to give some amount of instruction about sterilisation techniques what the sulphur could and could not do, but you still spoke, every single day.

Lieutenant Nixon found it endlessly amusing that Lieutenant Winters so often had to clear his throat several times to get Lip’s attention. His little black eyebrows would wiggle, he’d smirk, and more than once you heard him teasing Lip upon your retreat. If he saw Lip putting his hand on the small your back, ever slightly, when you walked away together, there would always be some sharp wolf-whistle somewhere in the room, and Lip started walking faster.

You took different transport to England, and lost touch for a while. Even after reuniting with your company, the air everyone breathed was a little more thin. Every single day grew more tense, each man and woman taking more and more on their souls, more worries, more fears. The balance was tipped, skewed, people hardened their hearts against most of their friends. Not Lip, though. Not with you. His kind eyes were tinged with not sadness, but sorrow. When he’d speak to you, his posture was no longer straight, and his voice was not rigid with purpose. His hands would fidget. Lip was never fidgety, but he’d take something from his pocket to roll between his thumbs and forefingers, sometimes he would even be so bold as to twiddle with your boot strings.

The night before Overlord launched, he approached you with grease paint on his face.

“I missed the chance to say this the other day,” he said, without any preamble, looking wide-eyed, a mess. “You know, when we thought we were supposed to jump. I had a chance, but I copped out of it. I was going to ask you if you were afraid, but of course you are, I’m so scared, I just keep sweating. Does that ever happen to you–nevermind, sorry.” He shook his head at himself, and he reached up with both hands to smooth his hair back, but he forgot about his helmet, knocked it to the ground with a damning clatter. “Oh, Christ.“ He sighed and bent down to pick it up, but he somehow missed several times, snatching at it, but his fingers would pass right over the top of it. "I was going to ask that, but that’s stupid. of course you’re afraid. Probably not as afraid as me, but–I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t seem to stop talking. I gotta get to the point, I gotta…Listen, Y/N, the gist of it all is, don’t worry too much. I will give you cigarettes everyday. Okay?”

It took a half second before you realised he wasn’t really worried that you were scared of not having enough cigarettes. You felt your throat close around a stone in your windpipe, your eyes watered, and you fought with your life not to cry in front of him. “I’ll smoke every single one, and need more the next day, everyday. Okay?”

That little warm smile reappeared, and he took your hand and placed a smooth paper pack in the middle of your palm. He closed your fingers over it, patted them, and went back to his platoon. He was walking slowly and with his head turned ever-slightly in your direction, as if waiting to hear something, as if afraid he would miss you calling him back over, but you didn’t, because one more word, one more smile, and you would lose it, completely.

Carwood Lipton was not going to die in this war.

—

Carwood Lipton almost died in this war. Carentan. Each utterance of the word tightened the muscles in your back to the point that bending over to help the wounded or packing up supplies to provide standby support with Gene made it a herculean effort. Then everything was noise, lots of noise. Crash, boom,  _scream_.  _Medic up left!_

Fumbling, fumbling for packs of sulphur, unfolding lengths of cotton and bandages, the sinking feeling in your belly when more were brought to you than you could possibly reach in time. Another blast, another annihilation of a once-proud building or home, another gust of thick dust and particulates swimming through the air, billowing, like a rain cloud. It was in your nose, in your throat, every time you tried to take a breath. It fell into the wounds of soldiers who were shaking, scared, asking her a thousand questions a minute while you tried to shelter their bodies and wounds by leaning over them, shielding them. Every man was worth saving, if at all possible. He may not be whole anymore, but he may be able to live, make it home to his wife and children, his brothers and sisters. Do no harm, leave no man behind, fight zealously for his right to survive this war, one way or another, intact or not…

They were your brothers…all except one.

The one with the strong physique hidden under an impossibly well-kept military facade. The one who looked at you with a smile and wrinkled his nose whenever Luz got going, or when Perconte egged Liebgott on, or sometimes when the Bull would settle in for some of his homespun wisdom. The one who seemed to leave a trace of his cologne on you whenever you sat in close quarters and the rare, savoured occasions where he’d hug you.

Carwood Lipton was  _not_  going to be brought to triage and treatment, except for the fact that Tab brought Carwood Lipton to triage and treatment.

Tab wasn’t shouting for a medic, he was shouting for you.

"Got hit with some shrapnel from an 88. I checked it out and his dick and balls are right where they’re supposed to, but he’s bleeding somewhere close, I didn’t get a good look,” Tab said, hoisting Lip from his shoulders as gently as he could manage. Tab looked at you gently, or as gently as Floyd Talbert could possibly manage in the middle of a raging battle. “I think he’s gonna be okay, Lieutenant. I think it’s all right. You can give a look-see yourself. I figure you might want to.”

Lip’s face looked like it had a pit in it, and he had one of those slow bleeds, the ones that filled you up with dread. He looked  _scared_ , but most of all, regretful.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You ought to be,” you said, tears filling up your eyes as you unwound a bandage. “You owe me a pack of smokes today, tomorrow, and every day after that.”

Right then, Gene arrived with some other poor bastard on his back, and when he put him down, he looked at you, Lip, and then the soldier on the ground who you’d been tending to previously. “What in the  _hell_  are you doing, Y/N? You can’t prioritise one man over another just because he makes you all hot!”

“T/4 Roe, she is your superior–”

You put your hand on Lip’s gently before he could finish. “He’s right. Wait right here and I’ll whistle for someone. Once I’m done, I’m all yours.”

The medic who performed triage announced to you in particular that his wounds weren’t life-threatening, and able to be addressed quickly in the field. You received dirty looks from Doc Roe, but at the end of the day, the man whom you’d been helping before Lip arrived had lived. You didn’t know Gene Roe well, even after all this time, two whole years at Toccoa, all that time in England, and you never heard him snap like that at an officer.

“We supposed to always follow procedures, always,” he said out of nowhere, when the two of you were alone, lieutenant and technical sergeant, disposing of medical waste, letting scissors boil as you gathered supplies and took inventory. “ _You_  always follow protocol, always, so I know you know better. You an officer, you know better. I don’t care I’m not. If you wanna reprimand me, reprimand me, ma'am. Shouldn’t have had to say it, though. Bigger disappointment, seeing it was  _you_ , of all folks. Sometimes we all need remindin’.”

You shook your head sharply, lips forming a hard line. “I  _will not_  reprimand you for kicking me in the ass when I fucked up. You were right, it was my mistake and my mistake only. I almost let my personal emotions get in the way of my sworn duty. Even worse, I’m less upset about that than I am what happened to…Lipton.” You’d almost said Carwood.

Gene carefully poured the water off the instruments and wiped each one with clean cloths before stowing them away. “Like I said, ma'am, we  _all_  need remindin’, sometimes.” Once you both had  _everything_  stowed away and ready for transport, he surprised you by speaking again. “Lip will be just fine.”

He wouldn’t say it just to say it. He wouldn’t blow smoke up your ass.

The desperate nature of your cause and the general chaos and confusion kept you from visiting often, but you did as often as you could, sitting beside his cot, checking the wound on his face (he sheepishly asked that you didn’t check the one near his groin). You always looked exhausted, and probably like shit, and he always looked concerned, never failed to inquire about how you were sleeping, if you were taking the time to eat, and if it was enough. You sat beside him talking for as long as time would allow, when he was awake, quietly. You touched each other much more than ever before, light, soft, casual, but you did, it was there. A hand on his arm, the way he would reach up to touch your face or your hair, now and then.

Parting was difficult, each time. It took you forever just to stand, and then you would find some reason, or he would, some little addendum that just could not be left, of course not. Then there were the few seconds of just smiling at one another when you knew there were no more excuses to stay, the way your bodies tensed somewhat, you resisting the urge to stay, him sitting up to see you off, in the only way that he could.

_Goodnight, Lieutenant._

_Have a good day, Lieutenant._

_See you later, Lieutenant._

_Y/N, for God’s sake, get some more sleep, all right? Goodnight, Y/N.“_

That last one…you returned to that cot in a split second, and, careful of his wound, kissed him for the very first time. Only once. You were looking at each other, neither of you knowing quite what to do, so you quietly bid him goodnight and left, considering what one illicit kiss could mean, and naming your future children, like a dumb teenager. You squashed those thoughts, but kept the residual heart palpitations and good feelings that came with them.

—

Lip came back and was awarded first sergeant for his efforts. He came away from it all scarred, but very much the same. He looked composed and empathetic, while not overly so, when it was announced Easy would be moving back into the action, leaving the relative safety of England and the laidback atmosphere that had so comforted them. Tension and electricity buzzed and crackled in the large hall, and, disappointed and anxious all over again, the festivities soon ended, and, bit by bit, the company exited to their own private reflections.

You finished the drink in your hand and left the glass upon the table. It was uncomfortable and disappointing for you, too, and you grew worried–not for yourself, but for Lip. Was he really ready to go back into combat? The answer was "of course”, but it did not feel that way in your heart. You were so distracted with your inner monologue that it took a few tries for someone to get your attention.

“Lieutenant Y/N, Lieutenant Y/N?” A sigh. “ _Y/N_?”

You turned around, blinking, and grew especially, no, strike that,  _almost_  flustered to see Lipton, there. “First Sergeant Lipton?” You smiled.

“Carwood,” he corrected, making your heart thump within your chest like the recoil of a cannon. “Could you come with me?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” you said, no real thinking about it, just of course you would.

He led you along to the private room he was lucky enough to be quartered and closed the door behind you. He stood by you for a long, long time, neither of you speaking, but his lips were parted and his eyes alert. It looked as though he might manage words at any moment, so you remained silent.

“You…” His eyes were kind and warm again, but with something else too, and there was a ghost of a boyish smile on his lips. “You should’ve stayed, I wanted you to stay, but I understand why you didn’t.”

“I wanted to stay,” you said in a soft, thin voice. “Carwood.”

He let his fingertips rest on your wrist, you could probably slide a sheet of paper through the gap. Lipton moved those fingers all the way up your arm, though, the touch growing more solid and confident as he went, until his hand was on your shoulder, and then moving up the curve of your neck, and then holding your jaw, firmly, gently…

He’d gotten closer to you during that time, although you’d been too focused on physical stimulation to notice. No man, no matter what they had done to you, had ever sparked arousal quite like Carwood Lipton had, just by touching your arm.

Extended eye contact. He would look down now and then, and you would look away, only to flit your eyes back to one another, hold that eye contact, look for…you didn’t know what. You could see him trying to gain focus, having some sort of inner dialogue, little micro-movements of his arms, shoulders, hands, neck. He looked down your face and licked his lips before his eyes returned to yours once more, and then he kissed you.

You grew so weak that you could hardly hold yourself up, but that was okay, because Lipton was prepared. Your need for him to take charge of the situation was all that he needed, in turn, to do so, and he tucked his arm firmly around your lower back and draw you in, pressed firmly, front to front, never breaking the kiss.

It evolved, from sweet and light to exploratory, from exploratory to hot, from hot to hungry. Inside, your body was going berserk, and you would have counted your respirations and beats per minute if that were even fucking possible, at the moment. You knew there was a bed in that room, as did he.

You knew it was coming just as well as he did, and both of you knew it was inevitable.

If it were any other man, you’d see it as sleazy, an attempt at manipulation. Not with him, though. Not with Carwood Lipton. His intention had only been to be himself with you, to tell you how he’d felt about it, to be the one that got to kiss  _you_ , this time. The bed was only a confidence of where you needed to be for privacy, because god forbid George Luz just happen upon you. It had been coming at you from the very beginning. Not of this kiss, not of the last kiss, but the very beginning of  _everything_. His loose threads. You, passing out antiseptic washes for Easy company to put into their packs. Dick clearing his throat as the two of you flirted, or just snuck glimpses at each other that turned into quiet laughter. He’d been meant to be yours, and you’d been meant to be his, and that was that.

It hardly made sense for a grown woman, a battle-hardened combat-adjacent nurse, to be on the verge of tears when she was about to get laid but, well, there you were.

“Hey,” he whispered, that hand on your jaw moving up to your cheek, his thumb stroking lightly at your skin. “You took care of me, you always did. What if this time you lay back and let me take care of you?”

You smiled again, then, just like that, because he’d spoken, he’d smiled, his voice, warm and soothing, told you that everything was all right, and he promised to take care of you. You were never going to find another man like this one, this good, this kind, this loving, and fuck, why would you ever need to attempt it? This right here, this was the one, the man who’d provide a pack of smokes a day for the rest of your life, and you were sure of it.

Lipton carefully walked you backward to the bed and lifted you up to lie comfortably on its neat little quilt. He kissed you into a sort of hypnotic state as he removed your clothes, then his, and you could tell he was self-conscious of his scars, the ones, well, not on his face, but you’d always loved his facial scar, and you didn’t care about the others, either. You cared about the way he smoothed his hands over your skin appreciatively, what it felt like to have his lips hesitate over your nipple before taking the plunge and pulling it into his mouth, tongue running warm over the soft flesh.

Lipton’s touch brought little quakes wherever they landed, and he enjoyed this small power, often smiling at that reaction and following his fingertips with his lips. He was the first man to touch you tenderly between your legs, and, much to your surprise and absolute joy, he followed that touch with his lips, too. His tongue glided over heated, slick skin, and he made every sound you’d ever dreamed of him making and more. He wasn’t doing it for show, or for a pat on the back. He was doing it for you, and because he  _wanted_  to. It was slow, not rushed, and you could tell that he was learning as he went. You smiled to yourself. It was his first experience with it, too.

The way he kissed his way up your body, though, showed that he absolutely had experience just  _being_  with a woman. He knew to make sure he was kissing you while he made sure that your hips were cushioned, that your thighs and hips were in a stable, comfortable position. He knew to trace his fingers in between your legs and use it to push them inside. Lipton held eye contact with you when you did this, occasionally checking other features of your face for negative reaction.

“It’s okay?” he asked. “Doesn’t hurt? You don’t hate it?”

“It’s okay,” you whispered, pushing back his hair, kissing him again. “I don’t hate it at all. I want you, too.”

What a sweet, shy smile, in such disparity to the confidence of his movements when he guided himself inside you and started to moan. He held your thighs, squeezing occasionally, and moved faster and faster, deeper and deeper. You had to reach up and grasp the rails of his headboard, your back arching, and he  _loved_  that. He loved that it was  _him_  doing it to you, he loved the softness of your breasts and they way they moved because  _he_  was making them move.

The sweet, shy smile was replaced with a sort of wildness you suspected few other people had ever seen on the face of Carwood Lipton. He kissed and fucked savagely, that headboard you were holding onto banging noisily into the wall. Four, five times you felt him press right into it, and then all the tightening of your muscles relaxed and contracted in rhythm, making Lipton release a stream of increasingly filthy curses, making your eyelids shut and your back go rigid before ultimately relaxing. When your head touched the pillow again, although you were unsure of when it even left it, your voice was hoarse from moaning, and you were panting, waiting for your heart rate to return to normal, waiting for respirations to stabilise.

Lipton started hugging you before even pulling out of you. Those big arms closed around you, and it took a while for you to come down to earth enough to hear that he was whispering, although you couldn’t make out the words. He planted warm kisses firmly against your cheeks, your forehead, each of your eyelids, and when he reached your lips, he kissed you with the unmistakable passion of a man who knew what he felt was for always.

By the time he lay down next to you, you were ready for a post-coital cigarette, but somehow he already knew, and put one between your lips, sparked a lighter.

“I’m going to keep giving those to you every night,” he said softly, pulling you over so that you were huddled against him. He let you smoke in satisfied silence for a few moments before speaking again. “Hey, Y/N? You know when I talk about the cigarettes, it’s not about cigarettes, right?”

You smiled at him and nodded feebly. “Yeah, Carwood. Yeah, I know.”

“It’s about being alive. Being  _together_. It’s how I say…I love you.”

You chuckled quietly at the soft goofiness, the little bit of nerves shining through in his declaration. “I realise that, baby. I love you, too.”

Lipton sighed like he’d been holding a breath for over two years. “Oh, thank god.”

You were trying again not to cry, and then decided to go ahead and do it. Fuck it. You had done it, now. There was nothing to hide, nothing to feel anxious about, no shake for either of you to carry, no worries of rejection and heartache. D-Day was over, and though many battles lay ahead of you, there was no question as to how you would get through it. You let out what  _you'd_ been holding for over two years, and at first, he was alarmed.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart, it’s all right,” Lipton said, stroking your hair. “It’s all right.”


End file.
